


Look Down

by Smithy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1790s au, AU, Eventual Johnlock, Eventual Smut, French Revolution, Les Miserables - Freeform, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 04:17:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2608181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smithy/pseuds/Smithy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, the young and wealthy Parisian, meets revolutionary John Watson quite by chance. Together, their passionate hearts fight for revolution, and each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I know astonishingly little about France in the 1790s, and the French Revolution. All my information is gathered as I research, and from knowledge I gained from other texts, and studying it briefly in class. My biggest inspiration for this was Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. You'll find a few references dotted in there about it.

Sherlock Holmes, as one of the lucky few, had everything he ever wanted. Clothes that fit - and well, at that- in the finest fabrics, the richest colours, the deepest hues of fortune. His parents, and brother, had always ensured Sherlock could want for nothing, providing him with the most delicious food, private education, and enough social gatherings to gather up a long list of equally affluent acquaintances. Sherlock hated every single one of them. He hated the thick fabric of his midnight blue jacket, he hated the way his heels clicked at he walked. He hated the way when he dressed, the cotton of his shirt felt like money. Sherlock detested the way his brother, Mycroft, would flounce about in their horse and cart, and act like the royalty that was slowly tearing his country apart, the way while his brother's stomach swelled with the product of his wealth, the people he walked past every day grew thinner and thinner, until they were hardly there at all. Sometimes, Sherlock didn't see them, but he didn't like to think of that.

Sherlock hated the way his every possession felt like little material exhibitions of inherited power. 

He hated how there was so little he could do about it. 

\------

  
_Liberté, égalité, fraternité_

Each day that past, things got worse. Days churned by, grinding each hour making money whatever way he could. John Watson was not proud of his methods, on occasion. Petty theft, and pick-pocketing enough to barter for a loaf of bread was not the way he'd imagined his life. How had it all changed, so fast from his grasp, and so slow as society slipped into turmoil? It was colder, now, too. His moth-eaten clothes provided little more warmth than a sheet of the red fabric Mrs Hudson had acquired. 

They needed volume. Noise. Attention. 

They needed Freedom. Equality. Brotherhood. 

They needed food. 

John's breath swirled before him, in little plumes of feather-white air. His shoes squelched, the water bubbling out from the worn out leather, as he carefully made his way through the cobbled maze of the city. Beggars. Everywhere. Frail limbs, outstretched, like forgotten skeletons in the graveyard that was Paris. Children played among the dying, racing through the capillary streets and alleyways of the lesser parts of the city, as if their life would spark some into the veins of their mothers, their fathers, their weaker siblings. Even with the few Assignats he had in his pocket would go to helping them. Food, not only for himself, but for those who needed it more. John was strong, he was young, he was resilient. The starving homeless were less so. Whispered thank yous, croaked pleas, and trembling guilt for Watson's gift of food. 

John usually had enough for himself, but the growls of his stomach on the nights that he didn't were enough to remind him what he was fighting for. 

No matter what, John always gave Mrs. Hudson enough to keep her healthy. Her bright eyes seemed dimmer by the day, set deep in her skull. As John's Landlady, she had a fair income, but no where enough to survive. John couldn't pay, all the time. Not regularly, at least, but the woman had the largest heart in all of fair Paris. She had enjoyed reading, before she began burning the literature that kept the two warm, at night. In the afternoons, and into early evening, she had a habit of sitting outside her little home, and watch the richer Parisians walk with their noses upturned through her neighborhood, on their way home from work, whatever they did. John often joined her, as they ate the remains of the food he would share. 

Only today, She wasn't alone. 

"Please, Take it. Please." The dark haired figure pleaded, crouched down, so he was at her height. In his hand, was a loaf of bread, far larger than John's own. John frowned, moving faster to see the man's face. Only, he was spooked, and quickly ran, leaving the older woman with the bread in her lap.

"Who was that?" John asked, cocking his head to the side, as he eyed the bread. Why would anyone do that?

"Not a clue, my dear." She shrugged. The two sat, and ate together, discussing their day, looking up at the stars, that lit the darkness. They let the cold embrace them, as the night closed in. They ate until they were both sufficiently filled with the stranger's kindness. 

\------

John had almost entirely forgotten about the absurd event, until almost two weeks later, as he returned from his weekly meeting - Discussing, drinking, dreaming dreams of a life that could be as bright and reliable as the dawn that broke every morning. John needed to plan. That's what he would do. He instantly recognized the mess of coal curls, at the end of the darkened backstreet. The figure's arms were raised a little above his head, and working against the cool, dirty bricks. John's eyes darted over the slender man, taking in his lush leather boots, his crisp, clean trousers, and long coat. In the pocket, a bouquet of papers, rolled tight, and overflowing. 

"What are you doing?" John asked, his voice a sharp and stern as it cut through the bitter late-November chill. 

The younger boy spun, finally granting John a glimpse of his face. His eyes were bright, and wide, and full of fear, glowing ice blue from his pale skin. He looked so young, so soft, so pure. Yet, his expression was that of a criminal caught in the act. With a frown, John's eyes flicked to the wall. A poster hung, curling at the bottom from where the lad was interrupted in his vandalism. _Liberté, égalité, fraternité._

"Did you put that up there?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. He approached, hand reaching out to touch over the poster, smoothing down the edge until he saw three more scribbled words. He looked back up at the young man, who couldn't have been more than 20 years in age. What was a rich little boy like him doing with something like this? "Answer me." He demanded, back straightening. Although he wasn't as tall as the other, he had more than exceeded him in brawn and strength. 

"I'm sorry." The boy finally choked out weakly, his voice pleading, as his hands trembled to reach out for the paper. "I'll take it down, but if you threaten me, my brother can have you removed from your position. You can't arrest me, my parents will--"

John couldn't stop himself, but the laughter that bubbled in his throat at the boys words. "Your _parents_?" He repeated, with a grin. "Why the hell would I tell anyone, I'm not going to arrest you, I'm not a policemen?" He laughed, earnestly, as he kept his eyes on the frightened looking boy, whose lips were parted, in silent shock and confusion. To Sherlock, the man's laughter was sunshine, that seemed to thaw even the coldest of winters. "God, I would be entirely destroyed for worse, my friend!" He laughed, offering his hand to the boy.

Sherlock eyed him warily, eyes darting over his body, lingering for a moment at John's wrist, before taking the man's hand, and shaking it firmly. Their hands, palm to palm, were full of possibility, cradling potential, and both felt it. Paris froze. 

"I'm John." 

"Sherlock."

A breeze rushed past them, swirling at their feet, and rustling the paper, that still had not been secured. John released Sherlock's hand, and turned to it, securing it in place. It was then that he took the time to read what Sherlock -or so he presumed- had added to the poster, his handwriting urgent and scrawling across the page, in scratching red ink, like blood seeping through. John's fingers traced over the ink. Still damp. "Liberté, égalité, fraternité.. - Ou la mort?" He asked, heart pounding, as he looked back up at Sherlock. Adrenalin burst through him, at the prospect of recruiting another to his group, the wealthy boy obviously committed to the cause. His faith soared, vowing then and there that Sherlock would be the candlelight he would work by, until the time would come to fight. 

A little rain began to fall. "Or death."


	2. Chapter 2

Deep winter was injected into the city like a disease. The chill was passed on from person to person, a yearly epidemic that only the strongest, those with the means to survive, could endure. Tensions arose, with each lavish movement of the aristocracy, came another gasp of desperation from the poor. 

Both John and Sherlock hated it. They met, occasionally, with murmured conversations in the dead of the early December nights, when not even the stars would whisper about their conversations. Sherlock would talk (whine) about his brother, and the stupid traditions and habits. John would listen, and occasionally interject with how Sherlock could better cope with the situation. As a self-confessed social hermit, Sherlock wasn't the best when it came to responding to difficult situations but in the short few weeks he had known John, he felt himself calmer, and more aware. He thought. He thought about what people would do, if he said _this_ or _that_ , even if he still didn't quite understand it.

Over lunch, one day, Sherlock seemed particularly displeased. John had begrudgingly let Sherlock take him for food, at a little restaurant near his home. John was out of his depth, he knew it. Even his best clothes didn't met the impossible standard the venue had. It was intimately lit, with a charming man bumbling about to ensure everyone was happy. Despite it's class and sophistication, it had a pleasant atmosphere. 

"I just hate him. He's my sworn enemy, I tell you, John." Sherlock grumbled into the wine, which he had ordered to share with John. 

"People don't really have enemies." John chuckled, with a fond smile. Despite their age difference, and the gap in their wealth, John had grown quite fond of the young man, and his absurd eccentricities. "Not in real life. Not like that, at least." He corrected himself, his own broader enemy slipping to mind: nobility. 

Sherlock's expression was a perfect picture, his porcelain skin cracking from it's usual careful control. "What do you mean? I despise him. Of course he is my enemy- and besides, you have yours. I may have mine."

"Then I want you to think about why you hate him." John countered, raising an eyebrow. His voice was growing a little louder, aware that he didn't want to cause a scene. Not when Sherlock had been so pleasant as to treat them both to this meal. "Our enemy is common, we both despise what he represents. Only you've personalised him. Am I right?" John asked, with a smug little smile. It was a failing that John had recognized in himself. While some call it confidence, other may call it being a cock. John was so self assured, in his youth. He felt himself invincible, and _always_ right. He might not have thought so much as Sherlock, or had the same education, but where he lacked in such intense education, he made up for in passion. 

"I hate him because he's an idiot." Sherlock spat out, fists lightly clenched. He paused. Felt the eyes of a roomful of the very same people lay eyes on him. People that, like Mycroft and unfortunately himself, could have everything they wanted while John would suffer. He sighed. "No, you're right. I hate the ideals he has internalised. I despise the whole institution. How can one society be so blind to what is before them? That the rulers of our very country can be so frivolous in their lifestyle, while the whole of France suffers! What kind of a monarchy is this? If we are all equal, why are some more equal than others? Where is there mercy? Why isn't anyone _doing_ anything?" He asked, voice strained in his anger. While Sherlock panted, caught by the conviction of what he was saying, the anger that tainted his voice. A few other diners, surrounding them, glanced over at Sherlock in something between morbid curiosity and distaste. Sherlock glared down at the overpriced meal before him. He was everything he loathed; using money to enhance his own luxurious lifestyle. In that moment, with John's steady, smiling gaze upon him, Sherlock _felt_ it. Felt the unadulterated hatred pulsing through him. He wanted out. He wanted to change it. He wanted to be important, to act. Something about John's smug little smirk and cool expression said that he knew it, too. 

After a long pause, their eyes locked in a silent contract of commitment, John spoke again. "Are you busy tonight, Sherlock?"

\-----

"What if they don't like me?" Sherlock asked, grabbing John's wrist, and pulling him close. His eyes were wide with worry, Sherlock toyed his lower lip between his teeth. "I'm not exactly... like you, am I?" He elaborated, to John's questioning expression.

"Why wouldn't they like you? I like you." John shrugged, adjusting Sherlock's waistcoat, so he looked more casual, more approachable. "They'll love you. You're with me, anyway, so they can't protest." He smirked, with a little wink. 

Leading Sherlock into the building, the stench of alcohol hit him in a poignant wave. The dingy room was crowded with men, all around John's age, some a little older, some younger. Men and women, all laughing and talking together, lit by candles and the light of hope in each figure's eyes. Sherlock felt warmed, instantly, but the air of friendship. In a whir of movement, Sherlock was introduced to countless faces, their names all racing around Sherlock's head. In Sherlock's life, he had never been confronted with so many different people, so many interesting, new people. There had been no one like John, no one like the crowd that caused a great longing in Sherlock, a craving for more, a need to know their secrets, feelings and reasoning. For those who had so little, they had so much in each other, and in their beliefs. Their comradery was enough to feed any hungry stomach, and their discussion sated the brain's appetite. 

"What's _his_ type doing here?" Spat a nasal, faceless voice. The gentle hum of conversation stilled. 

"Leave it, Anderson." The man that Sherlock remembered to be named Lestrade interjected, his voice firm, and clear. "He's John's guest, he has every right to be here. Just ignore him, Sherlock." He smiled, softly, his soft eyes gleaming in sympathy. 

"He has no right to be here. We all know why we are here. Him? He isn't welcome here." Anderson rambled bitterly, waving the near-empty green bottle about in the general direction of the newcomer. "You're all thinking it; this hypocrite must go. He has no place here; or anywhere." 

Sherlock, to the best of his ability, did not react. He was used to far worse interrogations than this, with crueler names and sharper tongues. He cared little for this stranger's opinion, his prejudice and drunken slurs. Sherlock didn't care what names he called him, or what Anderson would do to have him removed from their presence. He'd take it. He knew, that if given the moment, he could destroy the man with is words. He could dissect his every thought, cut open his most private feelings with just one glance. But he wouldn't, he did not care enough about this fellow to waste his energy on him. He cared about what John thought. 

John's expression was one of absolute indignation. "You--"

"-Don't" Lestrade said, simply, his voice low and firm, like a father's. He grasped John's arm, holding the man back. He looked half ready to bubble over. If there was one thing John loved more than equality, it was his repressed anger, and the violence he found suck sick pleasure in inflicting, especially when it came to justice. His left hand contracted, squeezing his fingers tight, then flexing. It was a simple action, that sent shivers down Sherlock's spine, and invoked a stillness into the room. John was seething, his very heart beat louder than the drums of death, and insistently fast. 

"Get out. Now." Came John's reply, after what felt like an entire season of waiting. His steel gaze resolved to watch, as Anderson begrudgingly removed himself from the premises, dragging his feet in a way that suggested this was not the first time. Sherlock didn't watch, in a way that suggested this such exchange would not be the last. 

The rest of the evening, despite damped by the rain of Anderson's judgement, passed without much of a hiss. Sherlock spoke frequently, discussing his own experiences of the inequality and injustice. They talked over well-rehearsed plans, and factored Sherlock's new position into this. They would use his intelligence to the best of his ability, utilize his stamina, and work him until the joints in his bones ached. Sherlock agreed to this wholeheartedly, looking up to John for the approval and clarification he already knew he had. 

For the first time, in his twenty-something years of existing, blindingly accepting the flowery world around him, Sherlock felt alive. He blossomed into his position, welcoming it gladly. The fear knocking at his heart was nothing compared to the pride and courage his new friends built together. It was their barricade, it was their protection. Sherlock and John had something none of the others in the room had. Yes, they had their drive, ambition, sheer hope. But better than that, they had a sense of gravity to each other. While John felt lost, his every thought being scattered by this strange and unpredictable man, Sherlock was found. But they had a loyalty not yet spoken. A duty to look after one another. They were safe, together.


End file.
